


A Long Night

by fictionsparks



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Yo it gets kinda angsty, and yet still fluffy at the same time, rocky relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionsparks/pseuds/fictionsparks
Summary: He said he would be home, but he’s not. It’s late. You know what he’s been doing.





	A Long Night

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. It certainly wouldn’t be the last. But, it sucked every time. 

You hoped this time would be better, and that he wouldn’t stumble into the house smelling of cheap beer. Maybe this time he wouldn’t trip over his own two feet, or hang onto the door frame for balance. Certainly this time you wouldn’t have to peel his shirt away from his sweaty chest, or coax him into dry boxers and shirt before he falls asleep face down on the bed in the dirty clothes. 

But, you were up late again. The clock showed that it was only half-past the eleventh hour, but somehow it felt later. His broken promises always did that to you. 

So, you were up again. You had poured another cup of tea, watching it steep from the chair in the other room. He told you he would be back right after the awards show ended, so a little after nine. He was two and a half hours late. Your hands found the end of your robe, wringing the plush fabric between your shaking hands. 

The clock changed numbers as another minute went by. The tea was sufficiently dark by then, so you got up and busied yourself. You threw the bag away and went to the refrigerator, emerging with the milk. As you stirred the liquids, you couldn’t help glancing back at the clock, but you knew nothing would be different from last time you checked. You just wanted to make sure.

You thought you heard the sound of a car pulling up as you walked back to the chair, but you dismissed it as just your mind being a little high-strung at the moment. Every little sound made your ears prick up and your hopes get a little higher, but you were always dissatisfied when he didn’t walk through the door seconds later. You sighed, trying to calm your nerves, as you placed the steaming cup on the small table and sat back down. 

Tugging your legs close to your chest, you allowed your mind to wander. Where could he be at this hour? Was he enjoying another pint or was he on his way home? How sober would he be when he walked in?

You were blowing over the cup to cool it down when you heard another sound. There was a faint clanking, as though someone was fumbling with their keys. Then, you heard one loud jangle through the door, closely followed by a muffled “fuck”. 

He was home.

You got up, setting the warm cup down before storming towards the door. Hearing his voice sent you into a new kind of rage, and you all but yanked the door off its hinges. And, there he was. His hands were fumbling around with his keys, and he was probably too drunk to even tell which one was which. 

“Ben Hardy, where the fuck have you been?” 

At the sound of your words, he looked up, like a deer in head lights. A light blush crept onto his cheeks, but you couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or just his stupid, drunken face. You kept your hand firmly on the door handle, not quite ready to welcome him inside. He had some explaining to do.

As though all his confidence decided to high-tail it, he finally whispered out, “Oh, hi.” He shoved his keys in his pocket before continuing with, “Why are you up this late, love?”

“Waiting for you,” you retorted, voice laced with venom. 

“You didn’t have to do that, honey.” His words were heavily slurred, barely audible, and he began to stagger inside, but was caught by your outstretched arm. You weren’t moving for him- at least, not yet. He looked back up at you; his beautiful green eyes were a little hazy, but the unmistakeable way his eyebrows tilted let you know that he was so, very confused. “What’s the matter, babe? Somethin’ happen?” 

You looked into his eyes. Sometimes, you weren’t sure how he would act when he came home after drinking. If he was just a bit tipsy, he would be loud and a little flirtatious. But if he drank a little more heavily, he became a big baby. You knew he wasn’t totally in control at the moment, and you shouldn’t fight with him when he couldn’t quite understand what was happening. Allowing your hand to drop, you stepped aside to let him through, begrudgingly.

When he passed by, you caught a strong whiff of alcohol. God, he absolutely reeked of it, but at least he was walking without your assistance. Closing the door, you followed him back to the bedroom. He flopped right down on the bed, shoes and all. You almost chuckled, looking at him snuggle into the duvet like a toddler, but you had to shake your head and sigh. It was all a bit too much.

“Oh, no you don’t, mister,” you admonished , which illicited a strangled groan from him. You had to kneel before him, coaxing him into siting up straight. Then, you forced his arms up so you could pull his shirt up and off him, all while he playfully fought against you and giggled at your desperate huffs of frustration. Once it was finally off, you tossed it to the side, not really caring to put it in the hamper at this moment.

“Can you get your pants off while I get you some pajamas?” 

He whined again, but muttered, “Yeah, I can do it.”

You left, and opened the middle drawer of the dresser on the other side of the room. Rummaging around, you managed to find a shirt, and then you went to find a clean pair of boxers. When you turned around, there he stood, stark naked. In any other situation, it would have been sexy, but not then.

You took the few steps needed to cross the room, holding out the clothes. Watching as he grabbed them, you noticed his rosy blush had made its way down from his cheeks to his neck and the top of his chest. He turned his head down as he tugged his boxers up, and you saw how the sides of his hair were stuck to his head with sweat. It was nothing that a shower in the morning couldn’t fix, but you decided to take a little preemptive action anyway. 

Making your way to the connecting bathroom, you grabbed a washcloth. As you dampened it with a little warm water, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Silently, you thanked god it wasn’t a weeknight. Your eyes were sporting some dark circles underneath, and your lips were pulled in a subtle frown. It was almost midnight, and you looked tired as hell. If this had happened on a weekday, you probably would have had to call in sick to work. 

You walked into the bedroom, damp cloth in hand. Ben was already on the bed, now changed entirely. He smiled as he saw you, but was interrupted by a loud yawn that had fought its way through. You sat on his side of the bed, perched on the edge, and reached out to pull his head a little closer to you. He allowed himself to be moved, pliantly melting against your touch with a sleepy grin. You were face to face now, him nestled into the covers like a bird in a nest and you sat on top of the duvet in your fluffy robe and thin, cotton pajamas. 

You set to work. Lifting his chin ever so slightly, you placed the cloth on his left temple and slowly swiped down past his cheeks, earning a satisfactory hum from the man next to you. He closed his eyes as you moved the cloth along his hair line, and they remained closed as you turned his head and wiped down the other side and along the back of his neck. 

Your hand stopped working when you heard a soft snore. The corners of your mouth lifted for the first time that night, and you almost forgot why you were mad at him in the first place as you looked down at his gentle face. He was asleep. His lips were parted slightly, and his eyes fluttered for a second as you laid his head against the pillow. Softly, you nudged his body over on his side, just incase he grew sick through the night, and tugged the covers over his shoulder. 

Before you left his side, you pressed a soft kiss to his temple. You wished so bad that you could stay with him. You longed to curl up next to him, but you knew you couldn’t. If he woke up with you there, catering to his needs and kissing away the hangover on Saturday morning, nothing would change. 

You didn’t need him coming home drunk again. You didn’t need to be worried sick until midnight. You didn’t need to take care of him when he couldn’t tell left from right or up from down. It was tearing you apart. 

You looked at him one last time from the door, seeing his chest rise and fall in time with his soft snores. Then, you turned off the light and walked back to the living room. 

In the lamplight, you could see a single wisp of steam rising from your cup of tea, still warm after all. You sank into the chair, thankful for its thick cushions and comfortable arms. You drank the warm tea quickly, feeling your eyes go heavy with sleep. You sighed between sips, the drink warming the inside of your chest and causing sleep to grow even nearer. Before you could even finish the last few sips, your eyes drooped threateningly low. You went ahead and set the cup down on the table nearby, and rested your head on the arm of the chair.

It was a poor substitute for the cushion of Ben’s body, but it would have to do for the night. You silently resolved to talk to him in the morning, and then everything would go back to the way it should be.

You let out one last breath, and closed your eyes, letting sleep overcome you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I might do more content for this, so let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in. Love ya!


End file.
